One-Word Prompts
by Cottonballpoofs
Summary: A collection of sort stories, each based on a word. Rated T for paranoia and probably some cursing later.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello and welcome to my very first fanfic! Well, the first one I've ever decided to show anyone, anyway. Like it says in the description, this is just a bunch of things from one-word prompts from a big list I made. Most of these will probably be pretty short, because most things I write are. Anyway, enjoy, and please read the notes at the bottom!**

Objective: not influenced by personal feelings, interpretations, or prejudice; based on facts; unbiased

Jack Kelly doesn't look at things objectively.

There's this thought experiment, or moral dilemma, that Davey's heard before – it's really quite interesting. It goes like this: imagine there is a trolley that is heading towards a split in the tracks, and you are the one in charge of changing them. Right now, it's traveling towards a pair of people who have no time to move out of the way. However, you can make the decision to pull the lever that switches the tracks, sending the trolley down a path where only one person stands. What do you do?

It's easy, right? Two lives take priority over one; everybody you ask will make the same choice.

The second question is where it gets interesting.

You're in the same scenario, but this time, the single person that stands on the second path is someone you care about. A friend, a family member – someone you love.

What do you do?

Here, people pause. Do they do the noble thing, or the selfish one? Many will tell you that they would sacrifice a loved one, but there's no way to know if they're telling the truth. Maybe they do believe they would. Really, though, everything changes in the heat of the moment; the only way to find out what choice you would make is to live through the situation.

But Davey has a feeling Jack would let two strangers meet their doom. Jack doesn't let his emotions rule his life, but they definitely affect him. According to the other newsies, the disappearing act he pulled during the strike was something of a regular occurrence; Buttons even said that once, he been gone long enough for everyone to seriously wonder whether he'd abandoned them for Santa Fe.

But he hasn't.

That's the thing. Jack hasn't left the newsies, the odd collection of people that make up a sort of family. Instead, Jack has stolen clothes and food for those boys and girls, _continued_ to steal clothes and food even after being caught and locked up in the Refuge multiple times. He's made sure everyone has a place to sleep, he's brought kids from dirty alleyways and rotting rooftops to the lodging house, he's made sure no one who messes with his boys ever gets away with it. Davey has seen what Jack's love looks like and drawn the conclusion that no, he would not sacrifice someone he loved for the lives of two, three, hell, who knows how many people.

However, he cannot say Jack would make the selfish choice.

Can one really fault a person for sparing someone not because they don't want to lose them, but because they know that person's story, their habits, what they're most afraid of, what they value, and all the other things that make them who they are? Can Davey really resent Jack for leaving that lever where it is not for his own sake, but for that of the person standing on the tracks?

No. It makes him feel guilty, and part of him wishes he could, but no, he could not. Even if they don't always live by correct logical morality, maybe people like Jack aren't bad, not really.

Jack Kelly doesn't look at things objectively, and that's what makes him amazing.

 **Feel free to leave suggestions for words to use in the comments. I say suggestions and not requests because I can't promise I'll do them – I write this for fun and that kind of thing stresses me out because I feel like I'm letting whoever asked down by not working on it and that's not a great feeling.**

 **I never know what to write in the comments of stories I read because I never really have any input past "I liked this," so hey, why not give suggestions of what to say? Tell me whether you are a dog or cat person. It can just be the word dog or cat if you want. I hope you're having a great day!**


	2. Vision

Vision: a vivid, imaginative conception or anticipation

They won.

Seeing the outcome of the strike and her writing – _her_ writing, she _did_ that – Katherine couldn't help but grin; it was just the first of all the changes their generation would make. Young, determined, and powerful, they had the 20th century in their hands to shape into a world of justice, happiness, and victory over the past. It was time to discard outdated customs and bring in _change_. She couldn't wait.

But she could only relish in the victory for so long. By the time a week had passed, the energy was already starting to slip. Yes, they'd won, but what had they accomplished? Bringing things back to the way they were before? Where was the progression, the revolution? You have to _move_ something to be a movement, and Katherine got reminded of their lack of progress every day on her walks to and from work as she was greeted by newsboys who still lived as they had a few weeks ago, and struggled with editors who were more critical of her than anyone else at The Sun.

Soon enough, discouragement sunk in, swiftly batting away the energy and leaving her with nothing but hopelessness and frustration that weighed on her mind and limbs. Everywhere she went, it dragged along, never ceasing, always whispering _what's the point, really?_ Her vision of the future seemed to be more and more unattainable each day, but she couldn't abandon it.

Yes, it was becoming apparent that they would be losing far more battles than they won, but the only alternative was to step back and let things continue on as they were.

Although passion only came in short bursts and frustration filled the time in between, giving up was not an option. Their world might turn out to be a lot more like the one before it than she'd counted on, but it'd give the next generation an example to follow and a place to start.

Change doesn't come easy. It is not convenient. But this is their fight, their time, and wasting it is not an option.

 **This one's really just a lot of what I've been thinking and feeling lately, because I think it fits Katherine pretty well. I might make a longer story out of this idea later, who knows.**

 **The question for this chapter is: do you like using wide ruled or college ruled paper? Comment your answer!**


	3. Hopeless

Hopeless: providing no hope; beyond optimism or hope; desperate

The brush hardly makes any sound against the canvas, and the calm feels out of place. Calm is for safe, calm is for happiness, calm is watching the sunset from a rooftop in the early morning with a friend who is safe beside you. (That friend is neither of those things now.) No, right now Jack Kelly is anything but calm. At least Medda knows to give him space. He's imagined a thousand different parts of Santa Fe, and a week ago, he was all too eager to create this one outside of his mind, but now he's painting it because he needs to. Because it's all he has left in this damned city. He's been in New York for too long, and he's not going to let it wear him down any more than it already has. He might suffocate if he spends another minute in this crowded city, under its smoggy sky. (He knows he can make it out.)

Who is he kidding – he'll never get there. He yanks one side of the canvas toward him and across, rotating the panel in a movement that's sharp at the edges. It drifts to a stop just a few inches from the angle he wants it, so he adjusts it, picks a bold, final black and starts outlining Race and Elmer and Finch and Albert and Mike and _Crutchie_ and some boys he's never even seen before struggling against the force of a boot that is pressing down so that they're almost breaking under the stress of just surviving. (He does not see Medda watching behind him.) It's messy, but plenty effective. He'll never make it to Santa Fe and none of them will make it anywhere other than where they already are because New York won't let them, the rich bastards that run the city will _never_ let them go. They're doomed to work and work for the rest of their lives, and it's really all the same, regardless of what the job is and who they're working for. This is it. This is the life they have, and this is the life they will die living. (Is living worth it, really, when this will be your entire existence?)

Santa Fe is just a dream. (Just like the strike.) There is no hope for them.

There is no hope.

 **So there's that. Maybe someday I'll write something with an actual plot. Or dialogue. Anyway, I liked working on this one and experimenting more with weird not-really-sentences affect the mood. Maybe I just enjoy defying everyone who's ever limited me in English classes. I'm going to keep doing these comment-questions things so: should pineapple go on pizza?**


	4. Support

Support: to bear or hold up; serve as a foundation for

Jack only needs himself and Santa Fe. Yes, he wouldn't mind some friends, but he's doing just fine as he is. He doesn't need his father, he doesn't need charity, and he doesn't need other kids because he can take care of himself, and even in the times when it seems like he can't, when he's beaten and locked in the basement of the Refuge or nearly starving out on the street, he has Santa Fe.

Santa Fe is Jack's sanctuary, his motivation, the hope that drives him to get up in the morning day after day. When the real world gets to be too much, it's his relief, and when life drags on it's the light at the end of the tunnel. At the worst of times, it's even a stand-in for finally throwing himself off a building or drowning in the water below the Brooklyn bridge. It's not a bad thing, to be a dreamer; in fact, many times, it's quite helpful.

But the thing about living in the clouds is that it's a long fall down. When doubt prods at him about how realistic this vision he has really is, and he can't stitch the dream together before it seems to dissolve all at once, his feet no longer find purchase and he slips right through the cottonlike surface where he's built his mental image of the city.

While this doesn't happen often – in fact, it's only ever occurred two or three times – it's not as if all is lost when it does. He still has his motivation, the arguably stronger one that lies below the open landscapes and clear skies of Santa Fe: the rest of the newsboys. Maybe they don't directly help him make his way back to where he was, but they're the reason he tries.

Regardless, if he was the only one trying to pull himself back together, it would never happen. But when Jack crashes and burns, there's Crutchie to help him up from where he lays on the ground, and Race to take care of things while he recovers.

The very first time they met, when Jack was just out of the Refuge for the first time, Crutchie had already helping him; he brought him to the lodging house and offered him friendship, something Jack hadn't experienced yet. Whenever he needs it, Crutchie is there, holding a hand out for him to take and pulling him back up with comfort, reassurance, and encouragement. It's effective and helpful, but it can never stop the process from repeating.

Until now, he's never had anyone to function as his anchor. It's fitting and almost funny, that, as much of a dreamer as he is, he needs two.

There's Davey to remind him that the clouds are really made of water vapor, plain old air, and aren't anywhere near solid enough to stand on. For every crazy idea Jack has, there's a list of things they need and possible problems. They make a good team. Jack thinks things up, and Davey helps work out how they might get it to happen.

Katherine is a new dream of his, in a way, except that she's not an unattainable imaginary city; she's here, and real, and wonderful and amazing and everything he could ever dream of, even with her flaws, because they're part of her. While he'll never truly abandon Santa Fe – Jack will always think of the stars and bright moon of somewhere he isn't when he looks up at the New York sky – now he can look down and see her, reminding him of all the reasons he wants to stay. She has her own dreams, too, ones that are far more achievable than his, but she doesn't always have the power to believe in them, which is where he comes in handy. They really do balance each other out quite well.

So Jack is not alone. He has Crutchie, Race, Davey, Katherine, and all of the newsboys to help him and be his support when he needs it.

 **It blows my mind that more than 100 people have clicked on this. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left reviews! Someone asked about putting the number of people that answered the question each way at the end of the next chapter, which is a good idea, but right now there aren't really enough people who've answered them. For now, you should be able to see by clicking the text that says "reviews" next to the story before you've opened it. For your question: animated movies or live-action ones?**


	5. Heritage

Heritage: something that is handed down from the past, as a tradition.

Half of the newsies don't know where they came from. Even if they remember their families, they probably know nothing about their history. In New York, if you aren't American, you become American as fast as possible to blend in, be accepted, and if that's not the reason, the process is a way of leaving behind your old life. Unless you used to live in one of those places where people have managed to organize themselves into miniature versions of their homelands, as if a couple of towns were plucked out of Europe and left to fend for themselves in the unforgiving city, you've had whatever kind of place your ancestors came from bleached out of you and scrubbed twice for good measure.

Jack's father wasn't one for tradition, and he'll never know what his mother was like; the only person who could've told him is dead – not that it would make much difference if he wasn't. Kelly sounds vaguely Irish, but he's more interested in the places he's going than where his relatives have been in the past.

Nobody knew Race was Italian for the first three years he'd been a newsie. It was only when he decided to mock an opera singer who had performed at Irving Hall that they found out he was fluent in the language. Jack had to step in to keep everyone from asking questions about his family after that, but now, sometimes, he'll mutter to himself, or surprise a customer by speaking to them in their native language. Jack's glad to see he's reclaiming it.

Tops says he's Spanish and that his grandparents were from Florida, which is believable enough. The part about them being famous generals is cause for doubt, though. At least Finch, who likes to imagine he came from European royalty that lived in a big castle with servants, horses, and knights, admits it's just speculation. Buttons doesn't care what her family was like, but often curses them for giving her curly hair. Mike and Ike like to tell any younger kid they can get their hands on that they're really the twins from the stars, and they came to earth to show humans how to do magic.

But regardless of how much they value their heritage, they all know their identity: newsie. They may not remember their original families, but the one they have now is just as much a part of them as their family's home.

 **Most of the newsies would have been third generation immigrants at most, meaning that their grandparents moved from wherever they lived and started families in America. I headcanon Race as a first-generation immigrant who came when he was really young, so he doesn't remember Italy at all. If you're interested in learning more about cities like New York around this time, there's a video called Growth, Cities, and Immigration: Crash Course US History #25 that I liked.**

 **In other news, my spring break started yesterday, which could mean either I'll be writing a lot more or a lot less, because everything you've seen so far has been done during class. Sue me. As for your question, do you prefer fantasy or sci-fi?**


	6. Caged

Caged: held within a cage; trapped; imprisoned

Standing at the edge of the roof, Jack sighed. If things were different, he would take a step back and then use the space to launch himself into the air and retreat to the sky, where the problems of New York seem small and insignificant. Instead, he only stood there, feeling the wind rustle the tips of his feathers. It hadn't hurt; feathers are dead cells, like fingernails or hair, but while he didn't feel it, the _click_ of the wire cutters they'd used and the implications of that sound bounced around in his head, growing louder with each echo until it blended into an unintelligible roar, like how people described a rushing river or a waterfall.

It was Blink who noticed first. Everyone else was probably too wrapped up in being glad he was back to notice, or else just didn't know what to look for, somehow, but as he'd tried to escape to the roof, the other boy had pulled him aside. The horrified look on his face as he dragged his fingers over where each feather had been cut said what he wouldn't dare to put into words.

Everyone else tried to understand, but he knew it wouldn't matter. There's no comparison to being stripped of your identity, freedom, humanity, and pride all at once. At first, he spent more time around Blink and Finch, but eventually he got fed up with the pitying way they looked at him. There was no avoiding watching them take off, though, and each time a painful cry resonated throughout his being, as if his body and soul were mourning like one of the banshees from the stories some of the boys told.

No matter what, there was no escaping it; only getting used to it, as much as the idea bothered him. From the absence of feathers brushing his lower calves when he walked to the way people looked at him out on the street, everything seemed to be a reminder. _Hi Jack, just in case you forgot, your wings are clipped. Have a great day!_

About two months in, he found himself sitting against the front of a shop with Blink as they ate the sandwiches they'd gotten from a street vendor, a cousin of someone Race knew – Jacobi's was too far away from where they were to make going there worth it. The afternoon sun, bright even though it was the end of November, shone off of Blink's wings, which he held loosely curled around his sides to shield him from the biting wind that cut through Jack's clothes. At least he didn't point out that he wasn't doing the same. Jack couldn't stand to look at what Snyder had done to him.

Blink looked over at him. "You usually molt around June." There was no use in phrasing it as a question, because they'd lived together for close to five years, and it was pretty hard not to notice when there were feathers scattered all around the lodging house.

Confused as to why Blink was bringing up what they both already knew, Jack stared ahead and answered, "Yeah." Nodding, Blink leaned back, unfurling his right wing and extending it fully behind him to rest it against Jack, as if wrapping an arm around his back. Eagles' wings weren't especially long, at least compared to Jack's, but they were much broader, and Blink had an above-average wingspan, so it felt pretty awkward, especially considering how Blink's feathers brushed up against his own. Jack could tell he regretted the movement, but planned on playing it off, so he didn't say anything. He took a bite of his sandwich.

Blink shifted, unsure of what to say. "That's a long time," he finally stated.

There wasn't really anything for them to say; besides, they both already understood anything the other could tell them. Rather than offering sympathy, or venting, or complaining, or pouring their hearts out to one another, they sat there in quiet solidarity.

Summer is a long way away.

 **Usually I'm not a fan of aus that are really out there, but wing aus seem to be a consistent exception. What do you guys think? If you'd like to see more of this universe, review and tell me! Have a great day!**


	7. Missing

**I'm not completely happy with this one, but here it is. I apologize in advance...**

Missing: absent, not found, or lost

Davey used to want to complain about having to share a bed. Of course, he never actually said anything, because he knew it couldn't be helped, but he disliked it all the same. Now, as much as it annoyed him, he wishes his brother would still take all the blankets and push him half off the mattress.

Walking to work alone feels weird. It's too quiet without Les skipping ahead, babbling about whatever was on his mind at the moment and asking a million questions, none of which had much point to them. It doesn't make any sense, because New York is busy and loud regardless of whether Les adds to the commotion, but it makes sense to him.

Work itself feels off, too. Although logically, he knows there's no need anymore, he catches himself wondering what Les is doing with Jack, Mike, or whoever he was selling with today. Whenever he snaps out of it, the truth hits him again, and it's always just as painful as the first time. Some of his regulars ask about his family, how his brother is doing. Davey tells them everyone's doing alright even though Sarah cried as she folded the laundry yesterday, his mother keeps blankly starting into space while she's in the middle of something, and his father didn't touch dinner.

Despite usually having a hard time interpreting people, at least compared to the rest of the newsies, most of whom have known each other the majority of their lives, he can tell Jack feels it, too. It probably isn't the first time he's… well, been through this, but it seems to weigh on him just as much as it does on Davey, who has been silently blinking away tears on his street corner lately when he sees kids playing tag in the alleyways, or being ushered along by their mothers when they get distracted by something. Jack looks… tired, really, not that that's anything new, but usually it's subtle and fleeting. He can tell that he also feels the absence of endless questions and boundless energy that Davey suffers from. Sometimes, he'll catch Jack slumped against a wall, looking down at his hands or the ground with this _look_ on his face. Together, it all makes it seem like he could crumble at any moment. Davey wonders if that's what people see when they look at him.

His friends help, and he appreciates it, but no matter what, it's always with him. He leaves a trail of it neatly contained in his footprints wherever he goes, gray smoke that twists and curls like a ribbon carried by a dancer, or a gathering storm. It hangs over happy memories, seeps into every moment and taunts, " _This is gone. You can't have this anymore."_ People are supposed to move on, to keep living, but it seems impossible when the smoke is in every moment, every thought, every observation, every action. He is a prisoner.

Why did this have to happen?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jack is used to walking, but this route always bothers him. Or, rather, the destination does, and it's all he can think about on the way there. Around him, everyone goes about their business. Although he's used to it, Jack still finds it unfair that they just keep on living their lives, unaware of and unaffected by what's happened, even as it takes up all the attention of those that it matters to. They might even think he's going to see a girl – it would make sense, with the flowers.

He's almost there now, and he gets that same feeling that settles over him like a heavy blanket every time he walks under this metal arch. With every step, the urge to leave grows stronger. He stops.

Lesley Jacobs

1890-1899

Slowly, Jack crouches down and places the flowers in front of the grave, careful not to step over the fresh dirt that hasn't yet been covered by grass. He stays there for a moment, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks at his loosely clasped hands before standing up and letting his knowledge of this place chase him back over the tired grass, through the front gates, and back into busy New York, where he quickly disappears in the crowd.


	8. Wary

Wary: watchful; being on one's guard against danger

Spot does not sleep with his back to the room.

Facing the wall would mean someone could come up behind him without him knowing. Yes, living on the streets as a kid has trained him to be a light sleeper, which definitely helps, but it never hurts to be too careful, especially when you're the king of Brooklyn.

Even though the room is tiny, barley enough for much of anything, really, the bed isn't in the corner. When you're in a corner, it's easy to get trapped. No, it's pushed against the center of the wall so that no one can come from behind him, but he can't be closed in, either.

When he is out on the streets, he is always alert, but never looks over his shoulder; that lets people know you're worried. He listens instead. Whenever he enters a new space – which isn't often, because he's lived here for longer than he can remember and could navigate the streets in his sleep, at this point – he looks over it thoroughly, taking note of the exits first, then the people, and finally everything in the room. He knows when anyone is heading toward something that could be used as a weapon.

Yes, he's probably paranoid, but better safe than sorry. After all, there are always kids with ambitions, and the only way to become the king is to kill him. Spot would know.

No king has ever aged out before.

 **So I realize I skipped wary and went straight to paranoid. Oh well. Can you blame Spot though? I actually had a lot of ideas for this one, but decided to keep it just to this. If you liked it, you should go check out Words Can Express by Xrea354 on Ao3, which has some similar ideas. Coincidentally, it's also a one-word prompts thing. Huh.**


	9. Nightmare

**Originally I had even more of a ridiculously long author's note at the end of this, because I could go on forever about things I find interesting or have ideas about, but what I got rid of boils down to this: this took so long because I'm still working on how I characterize Davey, and the request contradicts my headcanons for him a bit.**

Nightmare: a terrifying dream in which the dreamer experiences feelings of helplessness, extreme anxiety, sorrow, etc.

Davey does not remember his dreams.

Well, that's not completely true. There's one from when he was about eight years old that sticks in his mind for some reason; it featured a family friend eating too much soup and turning into a horrific soup monster, which wandered around the building, a deranged being that was still human enough, but at the same a perverted mockery of what it once was. He'd gotten up and slept on the floor by his parents' bed that night. Although every once in a while, an element of a dream makes it to his conscious mind, they usually aren't of much consequence.

This one is different.

It'd started innocently enough, with him sitting against a wall, reading a book. The sky was a gradient of pink, purple, and finally blue due to the sunset, or sunrise. It isn't defined and doesn't matter, in the half-reality of a dream. As he turned the page, he got a papercut, but he only stared, panicked and motionless, as blood overfilled it and spread over the pad of his finger. He remembers being very distraught that his book was being ruined. He stood up and walked into a narrow passageway, when all of the sudden, his foot caught on something that was sent skidding across the floor, and he tripped, using his hands to catch himself as best he could at the cost of the candle he was holding, which went out as it fell. But while one hand found flat ground, the other fell on top of a roundish, long object. Pushing himself up so he was kneeling on the ground, he reached forward and picked up _was that a bone_.

As he scrambled to his feet, he dropped it as if it was on fire. It made a dull clatter as it fell, but he was too busy frantically taking steps away from it for him to notice. He fell again, and then he was in another, similarly dark, room. A lifeless figure was propped against the wall, their arms hanging limply from chains that hung from the ceiling. Slowly, he walked over to it, each footfall echoing around the space. They wore a tattered plaid shirt that was all the way unbuttoned, and a familiar kind of hat lay on the ground next to them. As he stepped closer, he could make out… himself?

It takes Davey a moment to realize he's awake, and another few to be completely sure it was just a nightmare. He can't just go back to sleep, so he carefully moves Les off his arm and crosses the room to the door at the far side, just to the right of the stove. He keeps the knob twisted until it's all the way closed, and then slowly turns it back. Carefully, because being out here on the rough wood with bare feet is just asking for splinters, he walks over to the edge and rests his hands on the railing.

He wants to talk to Jack, but he knows whatever his unconscious mind makes up for him is downright silly compared to what Jack experiences, not to mention how awfully patronizing it would be, so instead, he just stands there in the lingering summer heat. It reminds him of before, when there weren't any friends to even think about going to for comfort. When he found himself staring at groups of people talking to each other before shaking himself out of it and going back to his work, sometimes with tears in his eyes.

But the unpleasant thoughts soon fade, and Davey finds himself smiling.

It's not like before. He has friends, friends who want the best for him and enjoy his company, even if sometimes his mind does an incredible job of convincing him they don't. Together, they'd taken on Pulitzer and _won_ , and there's no way to convince him he wasn't essential to making that happen. The kind of companionship and camaraderie he's wished for his entire life? He has that. It's reality now, and he'd made it happen.

Armed with the knowledge that he is not alone, he goes back inside and settles into a peaceful sleep.

 **Alright, historical notes! The "balcony" on the Jacobs' apartment is a really simple wooden porch-box kind of thing. I don't think all tenement apartments had these, but I saw a picture at some point when I was doing research on 1890s New York in general so I could get a better sense of the kind of place all the newsies live. Every apartment on the back of the building has one, and they're lucky to live in one of the outside ones; conditions in these buildings were not great, to the point were in the early 20** **th** **century they had to pass a law so any new ones had decent-ish ventilation, which is wild. Imagine living in a 13ft by 13ft-ish room (roughly 4.5 meters for those of you who aren't in America) with no windows where you have to always be burning candles or kerosene lamps to be able to see and the building is completely filled with cramped rooms and hallways. Yeah, not fun.**

 **Um, white or pink erasers?**


	10. Admiration

**I've decided that most people in this universe don't have wings, but I made a list of who does and what type of wings they are. Go ahead and look up the ones you don't know if you like; they're pretty.**

 **Jack – gray falcon**

 **Blink – eastern imperial eagle**

 **Les – sparrow**

 **Finch – goldfinch, how suprising**

 **Spot – raven**

 **Medda – red necked tanager**

 **The Delanceys – vulture**

Admiration: a feeling of wonder, pleasure, awe, or approval, characterized by underlying respect

The window for the newsies to go to Jacobi's was small – it had to be when there weren't many people on the streets, because you couldn't risk missing customers, but it also couldn't be during lunch hours, because then they would be kicked out to make room for more respectable people. Meeting up with the others there was only an option if you managed to sell out by about three. With Les by his side today, and the fact that he'd long since given up on telling the truth, Davey had managed to make it. Judging by the crowd visible through the window, most of the others had, too.

As they made their way toward the door, Jack landed in front of them. Measured flaps of his wings brought him down slowly, and the stripes on the undersides of his feathers were on full display as he came to the ground, bending his knees and transitioning straight into a casual walk as he folded up his wings. A little girl stopped walking to gasp and look at him. He smiled and winked at her as her mother urged her on.

"Jack!" Les dashed up the rest of the way to him, and was greeted by a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Well how're you doing?" he said, and then leaned in as if conspiring with Les, or sharing a secret. "Did you bring your brother with you? On his own, he'd probably get lost!" Davey rolled his eyes as he strolled over to them, but before he could get the chance to greet Jack, Les had him by the wrists.

"Teach me to fly!" he insisted, dragging out the "y" sound. Jack, who was already leading them into the deli, shook his head.

"It's not really something you can teach somebody. Even if it was, you're too young anyway, wait until you grow some more."

Les huffed. "That's what Davey and mom and pop say."

Shrugging slightly as he grabbed a chair and turned it around so that it was perpendicular to the table, Jack responded, "They're right." He sat down.

"But you always-"

"You know what? Just because you won't be able to fly for a few years doesn't mean I can't teach you about how it works."

Instantly perking up, Les asked, "What do I do?"

"Nothing, right now," Jack said as he stood up.

"Anyone have a piece of paper?" he asked, looking around. His wings brushed the table as he twisted to look over his shoulder. "Scribbles, you mind taking a page out of that journal of yours?" Next to them, Scribbles tore out a sheet and wordlessly passed it to him before going back to watching Henry and Romeo debate over whether giraffes were a real animal or not.

Jack took the paper, folded it carefully in half, and smoothed down the edge neatly with his fingernail. Les watched with rapt attention as he kept making new folds, and when Jack finished and held it up with a flourish and a grin, Les stared, wide-eyed, for a few moments, before asking, "So what is it?"

In response, Jack drew his arm back as if throwing a baseball and, with a smooth movement of his arm accompanied by a gentle flick of his wrist, launched it into the air, where it glided about seven feet away from them in a straight line before hitting JoJo and falling to the ground. "Woah!" Les exclaimed, staring after it.

He turned to Jack, who responded, "Well whatdd'ya waiting for, go get it!" Les dashed off with an excited flutter and came back a few seconds later. He handed it up to Jack.

"No, don't tear it up!" As he carefully tore another slit into his creation, Jack chuckled.

"Just wait, kid." Soon enough, he'd covered the whole length of the folded paper. He examined and adjusted the fringe before examining it and nodding slightly, having deemed it satisfactory. Crouching down, he said, "Now watch this." As Les watched over his shoulder, he folded one of the tabs over at a diagonal, so that a small triangle of paper stuck up on one side. "Now," he started, adjusting his grip, "if I throw it…"

This time, its trajectory curved to the left, and Les was off to retrieve it before it even hit the ground. It was simple enough – like a rudder on a boat, Davey figured. He thought he could see where Jack was going with this. Sure enough, when Les came back, he sat back on his heels and explained, "It goes like that because of the air. When this," he said, raising the paper by tilting his hand upward, "goes through the air, the air has to move around it, and when the part that's folded hits it, it gets pushed to the side." Seeing Les' look of confusion, he clarified, "You just gotta think of the tabs like feathers. Now move 'em around and see what it does." Les took the glider and ran off, excited to get one step closer to being able to fly and play with his new toy of sorts. Davey looked over at Jack.

"That's really clever, you know."

"Aww, it ain't nothing," he countered, shaking his head. "One of the older boys did that for me, too, and taught me how to make it. Most of it's stuff you just know without learning, anyway."

"So like instinct?"

"Yeah, like that."

A silence stretched between them, during which they watched Les adjust the tabs on the glider, intensely focused, before once more throwing it and running off. Davey spoke up first. "It's really good, what you're doing. I mean, we don't know anyone that has wings. He looks up to you a lot."

"You mean nobody in your family has wings? How'd he end up with 'em, then?"

Davey tensed up, his shoulders raised defensively. "No, no, not like that, our grandparents on both sides of the family, it's not-"

"Aww, relax, Dave, it's just a question," Jack said, amused, as he playfully extended his wing a bit to swat a Davey, who rubbed his arm sheepishly. He looked across the room just in time to see Finch angrily beat his wings and accidentally blow all the cards of the table. Race, who had been laughing at him for losing, tried to glare at him and collect up all his cards at the same time, which meant that either he was looking back and forth between Finch and the floor, or trying to pick up a card that wasn't there. Albert made use of the opportunity to laugh at him, and Davey couldn't help but grin.

Seeing Les tease Race right along with everyone else made him start thinking about how much his brother looked up to Jack again. Their family tried hard and did a good job, but they could never replace someone who actually had wings. It's yet another thing that Davey is grateful to Jack for.

 **I didn't test Jack's paper airplane thing until after this was already written. It does not work. At all. I could probably figure out something similar that does work, but I'm too lazy to rewrite that part. I was thinking about how Les already looks up to Jack so much in canon and how that would apply in this au, so I tried to write a thing.**

 **And seriously, you should go look up the birds.**


	11. Regal

**Figurative language is fun and Spot is a cool character to explore. Please read the end notes!**

Regal: befitting or resembling a king

He wears leadership like it was made for him.

Anyone who sees him standing there in the sun, with his mantle woven from golden threads and embroidered in vibrant colors that display striking designs, his shoulders squared and head held high, is immediately struck through with fear and respect. There's nothing else to feel when you see the raw, calculated strength that thrums through every part of him, the power he clutches in his hand. When you look at him, you're fully aware that he knows the weight of it just as he knows the streets of his domain, the shadowed alleys and bristling people. He's carried it since he was fourteen years old, but he's known how to use it to its fullest potential since the day he was born.

There's a beauty in the exchange of power between a good king and his people. They faithfully pledge some freedoms, some time, some work, and in turn he says, "I'll use it for you. I'll give it back to you." As easy as it is to break that promise, just as it's been broken over and over throughout history, he doesn't abuse power he's been given.

Yes, that boy shines golden like a beacon. His kingdom rallies behind him and raises him up so people for miles around can see until for many of the children and young men of New York, Spot Conlon becomes synonymous with Brooklyn. They learn to fear him and his legacy. They learn how one kid took a city and transformed it into an organized and efficient machine in just a month.

He carries the weight of his crown well, too. It's made of the lives of dozens of other kids, but if he feels the strain at all, he never lets it show. It's like the blood staining his hands that he never tries to wash off so that everyone, including himself, can see it right there, plain as day. Anyone can feel guilt, but not many can live in the contradictory state of not regretting your crime, but still respecting the life you've taken.

This, this is how he'll go down in history: there'll be a framed portrait of a stoic leader dressed in exquisite garments, with a simple crown made of solid gold and deep eyes like a tapestry that all reconcile perfectly with his dignified posture. In his hand, he holds a scepter, heavy with power.

You can doubt that he cares for other people. You can call him dangerous, and you can envy him, but one thing's for sure: this is his place.

 **The other day in art class we were going over the concept of critiquing and making a little guideline on it, which I thought could be applied to reviews here! A lot of times, I struggle to come up with something concrete and/or substantial to say about a fic I read, and I thought I'd start using it. Click over to my profile to find a copy of the guideline thing that I adjusted a little bit for written works.**

 **I'm working on a longer story about Jack's dad, which you can expect to see in the next week or so.**

 **Lastly, to the person that asked: in the wing au, Katherine doesn't have wings. She was one of the characters I was on the fence about, but I ultimately decided to keep her as she is because it works well with the way she starts seeing a new side of the world when she meets the newsies.**

 **That's all. I hope you're having a good day!**


	12. Unspoken

**It's hard for me to believe that I've written eleven whole chapters and none of them are sprace. Enjoy 970 words of fluff.**

Unspoken: implied or understood without being spoken

It's an average day in Brooklyn, and Spot spends it in patient anticipation of meeting up with Race after they sell all their morning papers. They have a competition on days like these, when Race spends the morning and afternoon in Brooklyn rather than the evenings; whoever sells their one hundred papes and gets to whatever meeting place they're using that day first wins, and since Race made it last week by shoving Spot aside with a surprising amount of force as he'd run the last few feet, Spot has a score to settle.

Somehow, though, Race is already in the alley, waiting for him, by the time he gets there. "Oh, you're _finally_ here," he says, exaggerating his movements and the tone of his voice. "I thought I'd have to wait _forever-_ "

"Shut up. It's not like you win anything, anyway."

"No, but I do beat you," he retorts with a smile, unfazed. The effect is ruined, somewhat, when he sits down and grabs Spot's hand to drag him to the ground. However, Spot's waited all day for this, so instead of letting himself get pulled down besides Race, he makes sure he lands half on top of him, instead, and draws him into a kiss.

Race pulls back after a moment, grinning.

"What?" Spot inquires, a hint of annoyance present in his voice. Race just keeps smiling.

"You're really something, you know that?" He moves so that he sits beside Spot, laughing when he raises an eyebrow in confusion.

"Yeah. You'se real smart, for one thing."

Spot scoffs. "Flattery ain't gonna get you nowhere, Higgins."

That teasing, playful smirk is back, the one that Spot wants to find annoying but can't think of as anything but charming or attractive. "You know where to put boys so they sell pretty good without getting in each other's way, and you're real good at all the politics stuff with other boroughs. You'se a real… strategist, that's it. A real strategist." As Race does that weird playful head tilt, shake, whatever, Spot can't help but want to punch the goofy grin off his face. Instead, he swats at his arm.

"Aw, shaddup," Spot gripes. Race giggles, but ditches the silly demeanor, leaning in conspiratorially.

"No, really," he insists, "If there's anyone that deserves flattery, it's you – not that your ego isn't already bad enough as it is." Spot finds himself laughing a bit, and doesn't miss how Race seems pleased with himself for being the cause of that laughter. "For one, you take care of all your boys, and don't go saying it comes with the job, the last couple kings didn't give a shit about anyone but themselves. You're a good fighter, of course. And then there's how you're… responsible, sorta… what I mean is, I never go more than a few days without betting away my money, but you always know what you're doing. You never get panicked when things start to go south, and if you don't know what to do you get it figured out."

Spot looks up when Race seems to have finished, raising his eyebrows. "You come up with all that?"

"Yeah. And you'se a real good kisser, too."

"That so? Maybe I ought to prove it," Spot says, moving in, but Race pushes him away.

"Nope. Not until _you_ complement _me_." Rolling his eyes, Spot obliges.

"Well, first of all, you're real good looking. Handsome."

Snorting, Race replies, "How about you tell me something I don't already know?" earning him a playful shove.

"Shut up, I'm getting there. You're brave."

"How's that?"

"All that betting you do has gotta take some kind of guts. Most other guys would play it safe, but you never do that, even if there's nothing for you in it. Look at how you'll fight for the younger kids even if they isn't from your borough."

"Hm," Race hums as he nods, considering it. He's moved from leaning against the alley wall to leaning against Spot's side, facing away from him, slouching so much he's almost laying down.

Spot takes it as a cue to start again. "You're always having fun. Even if things aren't going too well, you find a way to enjoy them. I think it's real amazing, how you keep your spirits up when things don't go your way."

Sitting up, Race leans away, angling himself so he can see Spot. "It's not that way all the time, you know," he comments, prompting a scoff.

"Of course not." They fall into a peaceful quiet then; Spot soaks up Race's presence beside him, and is almost startled when Race suddenly twists to collapse onto him, wrapping his arms around the shorter boy.

"I love you."

Although Spot doesn't repeat the phrase back, he does return the hug and respond, "You're so amazing, Race." A moment passes as they enjoy each other's embrace, content.

"Wasn't I promised a kiss, Higgins?"

Smirking, Race replies, "Damn right you were," and slides a hand to the back of Spot's neck before just looking at him. His smile evens out and Spot can read all the awe, happiness, and complete love in his expression as they breathe together.

And then Race's gaze flicks down to his lips and he closes the gap between them. With Race clinging to him like this, it's impossible not to wish he'll never let go, and Spot keeps kissing him until they have to separate to breathe. Even then, they don't let go of each other. As Spot leans back against the wall, Race buries his face in his shoulder. Spot smiles gently.

"Racetrack?"

"Hmwhat?"

"You're… you're just… I…" Spot stops, troubled, exhaling as he gives up with a slight shake of his head. Race tightens his hold on him.

"I know, Spot," he murmurs. "I love you too."

 **Hey! Yeah, you. Send in your ideas for words for me to do! You can attach characters or even general subjects to them as well, if you want. I hope you're having a good day!**


	13. This is just me rambling

**Hellllooooo my friends. As you might have gathered from the title, this isn't a chapter. It really bugs me when online authors do this, but here I am. I did make sure to put up an actual chapter, too, though, so if you're one of the 10-ish people I estimate look forward to updates, you aren't being completely let down. This is basically just me rambling, but I've divided it into convenient little sections for you in order of how much you probably care about what I'm saying.** _ **I**_ **think reading the whole thing would be worthwhile, but hey, I wrote it, and I'm not you.**

 **xxxx what's the future for this story? xxxx**

 **I'm going to go ahead and say the phrase I dread as a reader: I'm running out of inspiration, which is why updates have been slower. There are a couple reasons for this. First of all, I lost a bet to my brother a while ago, and as a consequence, had to watch an anime. Yesterday I finished Fullmetal Alchemist, which has, naturally, consumed my life. Whoops. Now I have a whole new fandom of content to get lost in, which means I'm not spending as much time writing. BUT I have no intention of abandoning this!**

 **Second, I've been more motivated for visual and auditory arts lately, for some reason. I've been working on transitioning from an anime style to something more western. ("But wait," you might ask, "didn't you just say you'd never watched anime before?" Yes, I did – I draw in that style, probably just because I found it a little easier? I don't know.) I've also just been in a mood for drawing, and I spent a good hour yesterday recording random snippets of things that could potentially become song lyrics at some point, because I just kept getting ideas.**

 **If you're wondering what you can do to see more of this story, worry not! I've got some suggestions: leave words for me to do, and please, review in any way, shape, or form! Seriously, even just saying, "hey I read this every time it updates," would mean the WORLD. And I'm curious as to how accurate my 10-person estimate is.**

 **xxxx a question xxxx**

 **Should I start an Instagram for my Newsies art and things? Or, I guess a better way to put it is: would you be interested in that? It'd be a good way to show my art to people besides my friends, and people who don't have accounts here might be able to use it to review. I would also be able to put pieces of the thought process, intentions, and ideas behind a story there, like little extras. That way, I wouldn't be tempted to put them in the author's notes. Or, you know, write 981 words about them and stick it in my story. Wouldn't that be ridiculous?**

 **xxxx on the more subtle parts of my writing xxxx**

 **Fanz4life had such a wonderful, in-depth, creative, and interesting take on what happened in** _ **The Ending**_ **? (Wow, I just put something I wrote in italics because it's a title… that feels really pretentious, and I don't like it) I might have to write that – with permission, of course – even though it completely contradicts what I have in mind, which will be confusing for you guys.**

 **I swear that's relevant and I brought it up first because it seemed like a good transition, start, introduction… thing… whatever. Example! That's the word I was looking for – it's a good example. When I write, I don't state everything explicitly – a lot of the story is dependent on you, the reader. Like, in that anime I mentioned (wow, I sound like a crazy person) the characters tend to sort of monologue sometimes, and outright say something like , "I've just done this thing, which means this for my character arc and/or is symbolic of this!" It's really better to just leave it there – not that there aren't ways to emphasize it or have characters mention it. That subtle suggestion is something I've been working on; I tend to leave** _ **too many**_ **gaps, and as a result, the idea I'm going for doesn't always get conveyed.**

 **Suggestion like this is a pretty big part of** _ **The Ending.**_ **(by the way, if you haven't read that, go read it now. Please. You can come back to this when you're done.) You've probably noticed that I headcannon that Jack has depression – I think there's certainly enough evidence for it in the musical – which can run in families. In** _ **The Ending**_ **, Jack's dad is really struggling with that, and my thought was that he committed suicide. Yeah, not quite as happy as Fanz4life's idea.**

 **As heartbreaking as it is, though, it makes the differences and similarities between Jack and his father both significant and interesting. I'd love to explore that in a story, but I'm just not sure how, outside of the character study type thing I do in this story a lot.**

 **I should get back to what I'm actually talking about. There's a good amount of intention that goes into these that, as the reader, you don't notice. After all, you're reading fanficion, not doing an assignment for a literature class. And even if you were in a literature class, who would go, "oh, the type of wings each character has is reflective of themselves, which I know because I've done research on birds?" So what I'd like to know is: would you be interested in knowing more of these behind-the-scenes kind of thing, either in author's notes or an Instagram account, like I mentioned earlier?**

 **Oh, and by the way, if you'd like to read more about Jack with depression, go read** _ **tomorrow they'll see what we are**_ **by** **firetan** **on Ao3. It's actually a series of fics, and one of my absolute favorites.**


	14. Gratitude

Gratitude: the quality or feeling of being thankful or grateful

Jack gets the roof to himself. It's a rule that goes unspoken, but a rule all the same; nobody goes up there without an invite. Even the newest newsies get the impression that it's off limits, and by the time they think to question it, they already understand.

Jack doesn't always need to know. There are many boys in the lodging house, and each of them can help you with something. It's just a matter of knowing who to go to. They usually don't refuse, because Jack takes care of enough as it is. If someone needs comfort, they can go to Mush or Crutchie, and if they could use a pick-me up, Romeo or Albert will be up to the task. Specs is always there to puzzle over a dilemma with you, and Finch will be your selling partner for the day. Jack already seeks out people to help, so it's only fair to make things easier for him.

If the kids in the Refuge don't know Jack, they've heard of the famous four-time escapee that tempts fate by dropping by to deliver food, blankets, or sometimes just kindness and conversation. Although they can't give much in return, they've been known to provoke guards to give him time to escape, no matter how much it bothers him to know there are kids taking beatings on his behalf.

So Cabbage gives him flowers she picks from between the cracks in the street. Sometimes, Henry will "find" pieces of charcoal or pencils, and Sniper gets revenge on anyone who hurts one of the newsies before Jack can. After all he does for them, it's the least they can do.

 **Because this is so short, I'm putting up another really short one at the same time.**


	15. Risk

**Sorry for the two-week radio silence. I had finals, and then had to figure out the finicky bluetooth keyboard I have for my kindle, since my school has us turn in our laptops for the summer. As always with these especially short chapters, I've put two up at once, so be sure to check out the one before this, as well.**

Risk: exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance

Despite what others say, Race is no idiot. In fact, he fancies himself rather smart; numbers, patterns, words, and interactions with other people come easily. From what he's gathered in a substantial sixteen years, most other people are only very good with one or two of these things, making him perfectly capable. A little careless, maybe, but stupid? No.

A careless person might bet away his hard-earned money and get in trouble with people when they find out he's been counting cards (it's not cheating – there's no trickery in it, just skill, and it'd be a shame to let that skill go to waste), but a stupid one will bring that trouble right back home with him, which Race hasn't done for years. While risking his own well-being is fair game and a perfectly common occurrence, putting the rest of the boys in danger is out of the question.

 **I had no clue how to put a satisfying ending on this one.**


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